


Roll the Old Chariot Along

by placentalmammal



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Cunnilingus, Dry Humping, F/F, Female Ejaculation, Fisting, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 08:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10407513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: Isabela does a few favors for the Inquisition, and then she does a few favors for Josephine. All's fair in sex and piracy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wyndx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyndx/gifts).



> _A night with the girls wouldn't do us any harm!_ ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-cPHVSAMsU))

As the Inquisition grows in scale and influence, it acquires many of the trappings of power. The Inquisitor have land, armies, and holdings throughout Ferelden and Orlais, and they have a network of alliances and treaties and trade deals spanning the known world. The Inquisition is in contact with the Qunari and the dwarven kings, with the Dalish and the Avar. Through Leliana's scheming, Cullen’s might, Josephine’s connections, and the Inquisitor’s bloody-mindedness and contrary nature (and perhaps through the Maker’s grace) the Inquisition has positioned itself on the international stage. All of Thedas has taken notice: they alone may close the rifts, they alone can turn back the tide of darkness.

There is only one thing they lack, only one trivial consideration they have failed to account for. A small thing, really, not so large.

The Inquisition does not have a navy.

They have no ships, no ports, no access at all to the Narrow Sea or the oceans beyond. Skyhold is landlocked and the Inquisition’s allies are not so generous as to tithe their fleets and harbors. Without ships, they cannot mobilize their armies overseas nor cannot participate in a great deal of international trade. When they sail, (which they must do with increasing frequency!) they must make do with borrowed or hired vessels.

In this endeavor, Josephine’s family and Antivan connections are useful. The Montilyets’ power has waned since the Blessed Age, but they are seafarers at heart: _from sea to shore, we tame the waves_. Perhaps more surprising are Varric’s connections: one of his dearest friends is a pirate _admiral_ , with dozens of ships at her command.

Isabela is entirely unlike anyone Josephine has ever met. Rivaini, a duelist, possessed of a keen mind and a sharp tongue. She is unrestrained by convention, unburdened by the expectations of others. She drapes herself in gold and jewels and she does not wear trousers. Josephine is immediately enamored (and who wouldn’t be? The admiral is beautiful as well as charming) but she is resistant to seduction. Whenever they find themselves aboard the same ship, Isabela flirts and Josephine responds in kind, but at day’s end, they always return to their separate berths. It is a mutually satisfying arrangement, one which brings a great deal of personal pleasure to Josephine.

The admiral’s personal ship is a clipper named _Bottle_. She’s a thing of beauty: a lanky, fine-lined ship with a sleek profile and a trio of slender masts supporting a vast acreage of brilliant white sails. _Bottle_ moves like a dancer, gracefully skimming the waves and easily outmaneuvering Qunari dreadnoughts and Orlesian privateers. She is the champagne of ships, the jewel of the fleet, the feather in Isabela’s cap.

(A metaphor, of course. Isabela’s hat has more feathers than Josephine can count, entire birds’ worth of dazzling plumage.)

Josephine has never liked any ship as much as _Bottle_. She’s spent a great deal of time aboard ships of all varieties: dainty pleasure crafts piloted by inexperienced nobility, leaking hulks and dismal freighters, pontoons and triremes and yachts and galleys and sloops. None can compare to _Bottle_. She’s the fastest ship on the Eastern seas, and her crew is as loyal and experienced—and a great deal more colorful than— any in the Antivan navy. The first mate is a one-armed dwarf and doggedly loyal, and the helmsman is a Dalish elf trained up on aravels. One of the crew—a pretty Tal-Vashoth with stretched earlobes—is a storm mage who keeps wind in the sails and clean water in the rain barrels. They’re good people and hard workers. Most importantly, they don’t begrudge Josephine’s status and finery or mind her presence aboard the _Bottle_.

In return, Josephine is polite and deferential and turns a blind eye to certain criminal behaviors. Isabela has given her free reign to wander the deck and explore the hold, so long as she doesn’t interfere with any of the work being done. It’s an easy bargain to uphold, and Josephine is gradually adopted into the crew, trusted with a variety of small tasks and rewarded a portion of rum. She is an unofficial lookout, and gifted a spyglass and a magnificent strand of dove-grey pearls.

(Sadly, she cannot wear them, as she is a diplomat and a gentlewoman and the necklace is plainly stolen. She keeps the pearls in a velvet box and takes them out at night to admire their luster and sheen. Perhaps she can give them to Yvette, who will be thrilled by Josephine’s tales of intrigue and piracy.)

It is Josephine, in her capacity as unofficial lookout, who first spots the fade rift. It appears on the horizon, a flicker of green lightning, and she does a double-take. It hangs several meters above the water’s surface, warped and irregular, pulsing with sickly green energy. She does a double-take and calls out a warning, but the ship is moving _very_ quickly, and the rift’s location is not fixed in the physical world. It shifts and skips, and the _Bottle_ is upon it before the helmsman can change course.

Everything happens very quickly. The crew leaps to arms as the first demon spills out onto the deck. It is humanoid, horned and bow-legged, violet in color. Its features are indistinct, but the demon is _shaped_ like a beautiful woman. The crew hesitates for a moment, giving the creature enough time to fix its gaze and Josephine and smile. She has a brief impression of intense heat and heaving breasts, and then she blacks out and topples backward like a load of bricks.

Awareness comes in fits and spurts. Concerned faces slip in and out of her vision, the Qunari mage’s chief among them. Strong arms lift her off the deck, and Josephine’s heartbeat quickens. She lets slip a moan as she is carried below deck. Her body pulses and throbs and she shifts and wriggles in her rescuer’s arms, seeking sensation. Her clothes chafe and bind, but she doesn’t have the strength to remove them herself. When she’s tipped into a bed (the sheets blessedly cool against her flushed face) she loses consciousness entirely.

Josephine wakes in her own berth, staring up at the ceiling. Her body burns like a furnace, pulsing with sensitivity and dripping with arousal. She is aware of the ship’s movement, the gentle rocking of the boat on the waves. The sensation is maddening, and she stirs, thighs pressed together. A low whine escapes her throat, and she paws at herself, seeking stimulation.

A voice, bright with relief, interrupts her reverie. “You’re awake!”

Blinking through the haze, Josephine goes still. She lifts her lead and see Isabela seated on at the foot of her bed, hatless and wearing her usual mountain of gold. Josephine takes in the curve of her lips and the swell of her breasts and falls backward again, her loins throbbing.

Isabela leans forward solicitously, unintentionally offering Josephine a full view of her breasts. She lays a cool hand on Josephine’s forehead, and the contact sends heat coursing through her veins. Josephine presses her lips together, trying very hard to retain her composure. All her late-night fantasies come back to her in a feverish rush: fingers in her mouth and a hand in her hair, a tongue on her clit. Need wells up inside her and her breath catches in her throat.

“How are you feeling, sweet thing?”

There’s nothing licentious in Isabela’s tone, but Josephine can’t help but read meaning into it. She struggles with her words for a moment, and manages to say, “flushed,” without mentioning her tender nipples or aching loins.

“You fainted,” says Isabela. “Swooned like a Chantry sister in a Hightown brothel. Like an Orlesian debutante.” Smiling, she extends a hand and helps Josephine sit up, arranging the pillows at her back. (And _oh!_ it takes all her self-restraint not to pull the other woman down into the narrow bunk.) There’s food on the side table (Josephine hadn’t even noticed), grapes and a pitcher, a bottle of oil and another of salt, and a portion of bread made from good, white flour. Isabela fills a cup and presses it to Josephine’s lips, she drinks greedily.

Water dribbles down her chin, spotting her bodice. She wipes her mouth and looks up at Isabela, her mind ablaze.

“Atta girl,” Isabela laughs, and she sets the cup back down. “You’re a hero, you know.”

“Am I?” Josephine can scarcely think, she’s so aroused.

“Your warning gave us time to prepare before we hit the rift,” said Isabela, matter-of-factly. “If you hadn’t called out, things would’ve gone completely pear-shaped.”

Josephine thinks of ripe pears, soft flesh bursting with juice. She imagines sinking her teeth into a pear, the explosion of moisture in her mouth, the juice running down her chin and dripping onto her breasts. She imagines Isabela licking it up, smearing the mess across her coppery skin.

“Oh,” she says. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Isabela grins, and this time Josephine _isn’t_ imagining the lascivious glint in her eyes. “You did so good that the crew’s ready to forgive you for all the _awful_ things you said after you first fainted.”

Josephine’s cheeks burn. “What did I say?” she says, her mouth dry.

“Niira carried you below decks,” says Isabela, leaning back in her seat. “You said some _filthy_ things about her mouth and her cunt. She told me to tell you she’s flattered, but she’s got a girl in Denerim.”

“Oh,” says Josephine. “Oh my, she must be _furious_ with me, I have to explain myself—” She moves to rise, but Isabela stops her.

“Relax,” she says. “You were hit by a desire demon, nobody’s going to hold it against you.”

“A desire demon?” she says, her voice creeping into a higher register. It would _certainly_ explain her condition, but the prospect of demonic influence is absolutely _dreadful_.

“Happens to the best of us,” says Isabela. “I’ll wager you’ll have some pleasant dreams tonight, but no lasting damage.” She makes some noise about leaving Josephine to her rest and begins to stand, but Josephine reaches out and grabs her wrist.

“Wait,” she says, her voice hoarse. “A desire demon? Is that why I’m so—”

Josephine hesitates. She’s no innocent (torrid affairs are _de rigeur_ for diplomats and dignitaries in Orlais) but she’s unused to base proclamations and raw desire. Everything in Orlais is coated in innuendo and veiled in metaphor. She’s flushed and trembling, arousal dripping down her thighs and pooling on the bed, but she struggles to name the sensation racking her body.

She swallows.

“—so wet?”

A dozen expressions flash across Isabela’s face, but Josephine is too wound up to chart their progress. She clings to the other woman’s hand, her thighs clamped together, chest heaving. Her skin is so sensitive that her silk underthings feel like burlap, and her sex quivers with arousal.

“Is it really so bad?” asks Isabela, sotto voce.

Josephine nods.

“The demon must have got you worse than we thought. How long has it been since you’ve had sex?”

The word alone brings such _images_ to Josephine’s mind that she almost can’t speak. She swallows, and says, “a while,” and then blurts, “but I touch myself nearly every night!” before she can stop herself.

Isabela laughs. “Poor, poor, Josie, going without for so long,” she croons, sitting on the edge of the narrow bunk. The featherbed shifts beneath her, and the rope groans under her weight. 

Josephine squirms, hair standing on edge. Her lips fall open and she can practically _feel_ the other woman’s body against her own, practically _taste_ the sweet musk of her full breasts.

“I can help you,” says Isabela softly. “But I don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage—”

“Oh, you’re not!” says Josephine. She’s too addled for discretion or subtlety, too worked up to care about wordplay and delicacy. “When I’m alone, it’s you that I’m thinking of. Usually.”

Isabela lifts her hand to Josephine’s flushed cheek, strokes her jaw. “Only usually? I’m hurt,” she teases. “Who else do you think of, sweetling?”

Josephine shudders at her touch, eyes fluttering shut. “Cassandra,” she says, fumble-tongued. “The Inquisitor, of course. The Iron Bull and his lieutenant—both at once! Madame de Fer, Sera, Dagna, Lace Harding. Blackwall, sometimes.”

Another soft chuckle. “You’re a busy girl,” she says, and her hand slips down, brushing over the ties on her bodice. “Even if it’s just fantasies, you’re hungry.”

Nodding frantically, Josephine arches forward into Isabela’s touch, bosom heaving. Isabela’s dark eyes slide over the curse of her breasts, and she undoes the knots with careful fingers, opening Josephine’s dress. It falls away, baring her shift and loosely-laced corset. Her underthings are practical but pretty—as a girl, Josephine promised herself that when she was grown, she would never wear boring underclothes. Even her flannel petticoats (so wonderfully warm in Skycold’s icy halls!) are trimmed with lace.

Isabela helps Josephine out of her bodice and her overskirt, turns her around with careful hands to loosen her stays. “What do you do in your fantasies?” she hums, fingertips skating across Josephine’s sensitive skin, raising gooseflesh.

“Everything,” she says breathlessly, shivering under the other woman’s hands. She’s nearly naked, wearing only a thin chemise and split drawers. “I want to feel you in every part of me, I want your fingers and your mouth on my breasts.” The more she talks, the easier it gets to describe her desires. The last of her inhibitions melt away as the other woman lays her down and spreads her legs, pressing kisses along her thick thighs.

“Lick me,” she pants, cupping her breasts. “I want your mouth, I want your mouth—”

Isabela laughs, a puff of warm breath against Josephine’s slick curls. She parts Josephine’s folds with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, leans in and drags her tongue across her inner lips. Josephine cries out, clutching at the sheets and kicking her legs. She’s already on-edge, her arousal pooling and spreading over her thighs.

“You’re so wet,” says Isabela. “Maker, you’re absolutely _drenched_.” Another slow, lick, but it’s not enough stimulation. Josephine groans in frustration. Isabela’s playing coy, touching Josephine everywhere _but_ her swollen clit. And it’s _agony_ when she’s spent so long fantasizing, fingers pressed deep inside her wet cunt. She knows _exactly_ what she likes, and she’s in no mood to be teased.

“Lick me,” she says again, and she pushes Isabela’s head down, pressing the other woman’s face into her pussy. She masturbates one-handed, drawing rough circles around her swollen clit, forcing Isabela to lap at her inner lips with the other.

Isabela makes a delighted noise and responds enthusiastically. Josephine has watched her in command, heard her shout orders at her crew. She’s just as good at following orders, and she gives Josephine _exactly_ what she needs: pressure and intensity, tongue buried deep in her cunt. She cups Josephine’s bum, fingers digging into her ass as she eats her pussy, lips and tongue and jaw working in concert to bring Josephine to her peak.

She comes with a shriek that shakes the walls and rattles the dishes on the bedside table. Isabela pulls back, grinning lips shining with Josephine’s wetness. It’s a smug, and self-satisfied smile, but one orgasm has done nothing to quell Josephine’s hunger. “Your fingers,” she groans, head falling back against the pillows. “Quick!”

She obeys, grinning wickedly. “Greedy thing,” she says, rubbing her thumb across Josephine’s clit. “Take your tits out, I want to watch you play with them.”

Josephine tugs her shift down, baring her breasts. Moaning, she cups her tits and pinches her nipples, making them stand out sharply over her dark, puffy areolae. Isabela drinks in the sight and pushes one finger into Josephine, easily sliding in past the second knuckle.

“That’s good,” says Josephine, breathing hard. Her dark hair slips from its knot, falls down around her flushed face. “Give me another.”

“You’re so wet, you could take my whole hand, if you wanted,” says Isabela, adding a second finger to the first. “Want to try?”

“Maker, _yes_ ,” she pants.

Her head lolls on her neck and she licks her fingers and resumes massaging her nipples, groping and tugging at her sensitive skin. The sharp little pain is a perfect contrast to the pleasure of Isabela’s dextrous fingers, curling and uncurling inside her pussy. She wishes idly for clamps or ropes, perhaps a paddle—she _likes_ spanking, hair-pulling, all of it. Busy as she is with her duties as ambassador, she hardly ever has the chance to indulge in her fantasies.

Isabela sits up and loosens her blouse. She reaches inside her shirt, unhooks something, and extracts her breast band. It’s a lovely thing, light and insubstantial, a few ribbons and a scraps of white muslin embroidered with roses and daisies. Sighing contentedly, she lets it slip from her fingers and reaches for the bottle of olive oil on the bedside table. “You’ll have to eat your bread without,” she says, pouring oil into her palms. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“I’ll manage,” says Josephine, spreading her legs a little wider. She reaches for the bottle and dots her palms with oil, massaging her breasts while Isabela lubricates her hand all the way up to wrist. She caresses Josephine’s mound, toy with her curls, and slips her fingers into her, careful not to rush. Moaning, Josephine bites her lip and squeezes her breasts, fingernails pricking her skin to offer herself an alternate sensation, something to focus on other than the sweet, slow agony of being _stretched_ , being _filled_. Isabela is slow and careful, not teasing, but taking her time. Praise dripping from her lips like myrrh, she wriggles her fingers, thrusts, pulls out, allows Josephine to adjust to each new addition. After an eternity, (each moment another little death!) Isabela kisses Josie’s belly and tucks her thumb, slipping her fingertips into Josephine’s hole.

It’s easy at first, with so much oil and natural lubrication smeared across her groin. Isabela has small hands, soft despite the hard work of sailing. (Josephine wonders vaguely about her beauty routine, wonders what lotions and balms she has hidden in her dressing table.) Shivering, Josephine clutches at herself, moaning audibly to encourage Isabela as she works past the initial resistance. The gentle bulge of her knuckles is the most difficult. Josephine inhales sharply, a noise like a whimper escaping her lips.

Isabela pauses. “You alright?” she asks, her voice low and husky, her free hand stroking gentle circles on Josephine’s thigh.

Gritting her teeth, Josephine nods. “Don’t stop,” she orders, inner walls clenching around the other woman’s hand. “It feels so good, just keep going—” her words end in a sharp cry as Isabela’s hand slides all the way in, her fingers curling into a fist inside of her. “—Maker!” she splutters, “oh yes, Isabela, don’t _stop_ —”

She shudders, clenching around the other woman’s hand as Isabela begins to thrust. Honey and oil drip down Isabela’s arm, and the wet sound of skin-on-skin makes Isabela tremble. She goes taut, tensing and curling into Isabela’s soft body, fingers pressing dents into her own breasts. She rubs frantic circles over her erect nipples, chewing her lips as she reaches plateau. 

Isabela’s whole arm moves, sliding in and out, rocking in time with the movement of the ship. Crying out, she bears down on the other woman’s hand, body rocked by tiny, fluttering contractions. Her second orgasm is quieter, longer. Her spine compresses, her toes curl, her whole body shakes with it. Mouth open in an undulating moan, she rides out the waves of pleasures with her hand fisted in the homespun cotton of Isabela’s blouse.

The whole cabin smells like sweat and sex. Josephine supposes that she should be exhausted, but she’s still in the grip of the demon-fever, still burning with arousal. She sits up straighter and Isabela falls back, shaking her head. “Your stamina,” she says, “is _terrifying_.”

Isabela crawls into her lap and straddles one of her muscled thighs. “I’m not usually like this,” Josephine admits, rocking her hips, grinding against the other woman’s leg. It’s rough, indirect stimulation, deeply satisfying after the earlier intensity of Isabela’s hands and mouth. “It’s the demon’s influence, I think,” and she gasps, spine curling.

Isabela wraps her arms around Josephine’s waist, helping her stay steady as she ruts against Isabela’s thigh. She brushes a stray curl out of Josephine’s eyes. “You’re humping my leg like a dog!” she teases, a grin playing at her lips. “Naughty girl!”

Josephine laughs, her dove-grey eyes screwed shut, breath catching in her throat as she grinds against the other woman’s leg. She clings to Isabela, bracing herself on the other woman’s shoulders. Their heights are such that Josephine’s breasts hang in front of Isabela’s face, and it doesn’t take much encouragement to get the other woman to take up a campaign of licking and kissing, gentle stimulation of Josephine’s abused nipples.

“You’ve got such plump, juicy tits,” she says. She wraps her mouth around Josephine’s nipple and sucks, tongue flickering across the sensitive bud. A fleeting press of teeth and Josephine moans, hips stuttering. Grinning, Isabela leans back and blows, sending a current of cold air racing across Josephine’s skin.

Shivering at the contrast of her cold breath and Isabela’s warm hards, Josephine arches forward into her touch, breasts bouncing. She thrusts her breasts into the other woman’s face as she her juices run down over Isabela’s thigh, trickling down into the blankets.

A sigh slips from between her lips, and she watches the other woman through hooded eyes. She is beautiful, so beautiful, dark and lovely—her makeup has smudged, her face shines with perspiration, her hair is a damp mass of frizzy curls. Without pausing the stuttering movement of her hips, Josephine picks at the knot of Isabela’s bandana and tugs it free, letting her hair fall loose. Its natural texture is incredible, felt-like against Josephine’s fingertips. She works her fingers into Isabela’s hair and massages her scalp, and the other woman sighs happily. “Sweet girl, worrying about me,” she says, between kisses. “So thoughtful!”

She hefts Josephine’s heavy breasts, sliding her slick thumbs over her stiff nipples, smearing Josephine’s juices across her chest. It’s a sweet, pungent smell, ripened fruit and vinegar. It overpowers _Bottle’s_ cedar-and-pine scent, reduces the salt and brine of open ocean to a faint suggestion in the background. And beneath it, Josephine can smell Isabela’s arousal—a deeper, earthier scent than her own, the richness of sun-touched soil and the tanginess of dry wine.

Isabela is still half-dressed, still wearing panties and a see-through blouse. Her underthings are soaked through, clinging obscenely to her sex, highlighting every curve and contour of her plump outer lips. It must be torture, to go so long untouched—aching, but too focused on your partner to say so. The prospect of touching the other woman, of tasting her cunt and drawing an orgasm from her body makes Josephine swoon. Gasping, she comes with a rush of fluid against Isabela’s thigh.

Sweaty and jelly-legged, she disentangles herself from Isabela and flops back onto the mattress. “Lay back,” says Josephine, equal parts eager and authoritative. “I want to touch you, Isabela.”

With a laugh, Isabela does as she’s told. She sprawls out, her head pillowed on her arms, stretching her legs and making herself comfortable in the narrow bunk. She smiles up at Josephine, twisting a strand of hair around her index finger. “It’s a good thing you’re not part of my permanent crew,” she says huskily. “My men would lose all respect if they knew I’d rolled over for an _Antivan_.”

“Oh?” says Josephine, teasing the hem of Josephine’s blouse up to expose her belly. “Are we Antivans not fierce enough for you, Admiral?” She kisses her soft skin, downy hairs tickling her nose. She feels her way along the other woman’s torso, fingernails digging into her flesh. “Too gentle for your tastes?”

“Too soft,” says Isabela, wriggling out of her shirt. Her breasts hang low on her ribcage, veined with silvery stretch marks. Josephine traces the alluvial lines, following the tracks of her body first with her fingers, and then her tongue. Isabela makes a pleased noise, and tangles her fingers in Josephine’s hair. “If only you were all as sharp as your Crows—”

Josephine clucks, pinches her nipple as punishment and Isabela gasps, fingers tightening in her hair. “We must be!” Josephine speaks with a smile, her eyes gentle as they wander the length of Isabela’s body. Her cheeks flush, and heat pools in her groin. “Only a truly _ferocious_ people could make use of such _vicious_ assassins.” Grinning wickedly, she bends her head to kiss the other woman, shivering at the taste of her own juices on Isabela’s tongue. Arousal curls in her gut, and she clamps her thighs together, ignoring her own needs in favor of Isabela’s.

The other woman laughs breathily, and Josephine’s heart pounds like a bass drum. “You’re all sweetness and light, lady ambassador,” says Isabela, a sly grin on her lips. “A kitten without claws.”

“Ah, but I still have my teeth.” Josephine nips at the Isabela’s lower lip, biting down until the other woman gasps. “Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness.”

“I could never,” says Isabela, moaning breathlessly. “Nobody could ever watch you fuck and call you weak. You’re a champion, milady.”

Satisfied, Josephine reaches down and presses her fingers into the cleft between Isabela’s legs, shoving her panties aside. She is even wetter than Josephine thought she would be, crying out and arching into the contact. Fumbling in her eagerness, Josephine parts her outer lips and delves into her slick core, searching for her clit. Her thumb brushes over the sensitive bud and Isabela gasps, shoulders lifting up off the mattress. “That’s it,” she says, her voice thick with arousal. “Just like that, lovely.”

Her expression is pure bliss: veiled eyes, parted lips, no tension in her brows or in the line of her shoulders. Isabela is a vision with her eyes closed and her dark curls fanned out on the white sheets. Her lips drip nectar, sweet and rich as pomegranate. Josephine fucks Isabela with two fingers, curling and uncurling inside her dripping cunt. Her juices flow freely, slicking her curls and cooling in the chill air. Breathless, Josephine watches the other woman’s mouth and drinks in the music of her voice. Isabela’s skin tastes of cinnamon and cloves.

Isabela cries out, her voice breaking like waves. Her thighs shake, coiling tightly around Josephine’s waist, trapping her in a bone-crushing embrace. Chest-to-chest, teetering on the edge, Josephine listens to Isabela’s moans and imagines that she can hear the thunder of her heartbeat. Her cheeks are ruddy, her eyes are unfocused, and she clutches at Josephine with a drowning intensity. She speaks without words, her desperation distilled into ragged whimpers and soft moans. The scent of her arousal hangs heavy in the air, and Josephine squirms, her own cunt aching with neglect.

Ignoring a cramp in her wrist, she works one hand free and touches herself in time to the other woman’s moans. Isabela is coming undone, cunt clenching around Josephine’s fingers as she slides her thumb over her clit. A hundred tiny, shuddering contractions and Isabela suddenly goes still, her entire body strung tight like piano wire. Her face is screwed up in intense concentration, which slips sideways into orgasm when Josephine bends her head and flicks her tongue across the dark bud of her nipple. Isabela lets out a gusty sigh, shivering and twitching, all the tension draining from her body. There’s a wet rush of fluid between her legs, and Josephine pulls back to watch it gush out of her in time with the contractions of her body.

It’s enough to send Josephine over the edge. A final, shivering gasp, and she brings herself to an easy orgasm, her face buried in Isabela’s tits. All her manic energy drains away in the wake of this final orgasm, and she goes slack, her body leaden. With an effortful grunt, she rolls off Isabela and nestles into the warm space beside her, resting her head on the other woman’s shoulder.

Isabela is silent for a few moments, drunk off her afterglow. When she speaks, her voice is honey-sweet. “Is that it, then?” she says, stroking Josephine’s glossy curls. “All tuckered out?”

Josephine laughs. “I suppose I am,” she says. “I certainly feel more like myself than I did.”

Another moment of silence. “Are you alright,” says Isabela, “with what happened? I didn’t mean to take advantage, but—”

“I’m fine.” Tired as she is, Josephine battles inertia and lifts her head to look the other woman in the eye. “Just fine, Isabela. You helped me, truly.”

Isabela heaved a sigh of relief. “I hoped you’d say that,” she said. “Things aren’t always so clear in the heat of the moment.”

“I am just fine,” says Josephine firmly. “A little sore, perhaps, but that is to be expected.”

“That is entirely your own fault,” Isabela says. “How many times did you come?”

“Three or four.” Josephine nestles closer, burying her face in the other woman’s hair. “I lost count.”

“Lucky you,” Isabela mutters. She presses a kiss to Josephine’s forehead. “But now that your virtue is thoroughly compromised, perhaps you can wear those pearls I gave you. They’ll suit your eyes, love.”

Josephine laughs, mimes outrage. “I have my standards, Admiral! I may drink rum and lay with pirates, but I would _never_ wear another woman’s jewels!.”

“You’ve got low standards,” Isabela teases, tugging at Josephine’s curls. “Well then, are you well enough to be up and about?”

“I’m not so ‘flushed’ any more,” says Josephine. “But I might stay in bed a while longer. You’ve given me a lot to think about. Perhaps now I’ll be thinking of you _always_ , instead of _usually_.” Her laugh is sly, and Isabela’s eyebrows rise to her hairline.

“You’re still not finished?” she says, incredulous. “ _My_ , you’re so much more _energetic_ than I would’ve guessed.”

“Perhaps the demon is only an excuse,” Josephine demurs. “It had been _such_ a long time, after all.”

Isabela laughs, and begins to put her clothes back in order. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she says. “If you ever find another excuse, sweetling, just let me know.”

Josephine flashes a grin, eyes glinting. “Oh, I _will_ ,” she says. “You can count on it.”


End file.
